


Hot Rod

by zjofierose



Category: Star Trek RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Bad Puns, Crack Fic, Humor, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-04
Updated: 2013-07-04
Packaged: 2017-12-17 16:59:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,693
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/869862
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zjofierose/pseuds/zjofierose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's something up with Chris's car, so he needs the grease-soaked attentions of a certain mechanic...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hot Rod

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: unabashed and unapologetic abuse of every possible car innuendo, and a few that really shouldn't work at all.
> 
> (written for for Pinto Pornapalooza II)

You could lube an entire porno with the amount of sweat that has trickled down Chris’ back, or at least it sure feels that way by the time his boots crunch on the gravel of the gas station parking lot. He wipes the back of his hand across his forehead again, grimacing as he manages to smear yet more of the omnipresent Arizona dirt into his eyes. _Desert Dudes Do it Dirty_ , or _Lost, Lubed, and Lonely_. Maybe _Barebacking to the Border_. 

No, on second thought, maybe not that last one. 

He’s too brain-blisteringly hot to notice at first the abandoned air of the station, blinds drawn and pumps locked limp into their cradles. The pavement is cracked where it meets the building, and the door to the unisex bathroom stands open, gaping. A lone tumbleweed has caught itself against the corner of the furthest pump, tangled up in nozzle hose and the side of the black plastic trash barrel. 

_No_ , he thinks, as his more than slightly fried brain registers the scene. He pushes down a sudden twist of panic, _Not. Acceptable. Not after six and a half miles, no, no, no, there is someone here, there’s absolutely got to be someone here_.

A beaded line of perspiration rolls down the delicate curve where his back meets his posterior, slipping like so much drool into the crack of his butt cheeks, and he shifts uncomfortably, pulling at the seat of his jeans in an effort to unstick his thoroughly damp underwear from the underside of his balls. 

“Hello?”

His hands around his mouth are dry, and he licks his lips to relieve the cracking. Salt and dust assault his tongue, distracting him as he listens for a response. 

Nothing.

_Maybe the cashier’s just taking a nap. They can’t possibly get much business out here- maybe he’s asleep, or has the TV up too loud._ Chris licks his lips again, letting the tip of his tongue linger in the corner of his mouth, tasting the heat on the wind. 

“Hello??”

Banging on the door gets no response, nor does peering in the windows. There’s a curling knot in Chris’ gut, and it’s twisting his innards in anxiety as it writhes under the line of fuzz that trails haphazardly into his jeans. It’s only just past noon, and getting hotter- he peeled off his undershirt more than a mile back, tucking the dripping piece of cloth into the back of his pants. He can feel that he’s burning all across the sweat-slicked expanse of his shoulders, the curve of his clavicle growing warm and tender to the touch. He needs shade, and he needs water, both sooner rather than later.

_Maybe there’s someone around the back._

Chris makes his way around the corner of the gas station, raising his hand to shade his eyes. The desert is endless, heat waves shimmering over the packed earth. He can see mirages of life-giving water flickering on the horizon, fatal attractions for the unwary.

_“…c’mon dad…gimme the car tonight… c’mon dad… gimme the car…”_

Is that…? It’s not what you could call music, not by any stretch of the imagination, but Chris thinks he’s never heard sweeter than this particular warbled rendition of the Violent Femmes. It’s coming from… aha! There’s an outbuilding a couple hundred yards from the back of the station, all squat concrete and low hanging roof. The door is cracked open, propped with a rusty oil can. 

He makes his way over to the building, following the sound of the voice until he’s got his face pressed to the space between door and jamb.

_“…I’ve got this boy… I wanna…”_

The music is loud, now, echoing off of the cinderblock walls and the corrugated roof, emanating from a battered old boombox he can dimly see in the far corner of the room. He knocks. 

_“…and he can touch me… all over my body… he can…touch me…”_

Chris knocks louder, beginning to be embarrassed. The singer is clearly enjoying something of a private moment, and Chris does so hate to interrupt such unadulterated joy. But… he needs help.

_“…and I will… touch him… all over his body and I’ll… touch him…all over his body…”_

He sighs. This is ridiculous. He kicks the oil can hard. The singing breaks off abruptly as the almighty clatter of the aluminum across the concrete resounds through the room. Chris has caught the door as it swung shut, and he watches with his mouth open as a pair of bare feet begins to emerge from beneath the elevated muscle car in the center of the room. They’re long toed and delicate, the arch pale and curving into the firmly padded metatarsals. A smear of oil has worked its way from between the first two toes of the right foot, smudging itself into the soft skin of the instep, and suddenly all Chris wants to do is to suck the grease right off of that tender flesh, to slide his tongue between those toes and taste the flavors of iron and oil and dirt.

He shakes his head, forcing himself to focus. He must have been in the sun too long.

His addled head is not helped by the legs attached to the feet. Long and lean, covered with a generous pelt of thick dark hair, ripped and oil-stained denim cut-offs that do nothing to hide an indelicate bulge at the fly, they just keep coming. He knows he’s staring, but he can’t help himself; legs like that demand their due of attention, circumstances be damned. The torso attached to the legs is bare, slim and wiry and all lined with an art student’s wet dream of anatomically rendered muscles in bas relief under a veritable Rorschach of chest hair. Chris’ dick throbs painfully in his pants, and he forcibly closes his mouth just in time for the underbelly of the car to discharge the head atop this collection of Adonis’ mortal castoffs. 

“Well, howdy, stranger.” The drawl is faked, and the teeth are far too many in that sin-lipped mouth. “Can I… lend you a hand?”

“Um… yeah. I… I mean, yes, please, I need some help.” _Jesus fuck, can he speak English or not?_ “My car stalled out up the road a few miles. I need a tow and a phone. Please.”

The muscles in the man’s arms as he pushes himself up off the cart are obscene in their slide, and Chris stares determinedly at the man’s face as the stranger reaches out one long-fingered, oil smeared hand.

“Hi. I’m Zach.” The man grins, his gaze sliding all over Chris’ sweaty, heat flushed body. “And I would just _love_ to get you sorted out.”

\--

It’s only minutes from the time he walks in the door to the garage to the moment he walks back out of it, but it feels like a small eternity. Chris is buzzing on every level, his brain with fatigue and dehydration, his body with its immediate physical proximity to what he thinks must be a small sexual super-nova. From the way Zach had watched as a stray droplet of water had run down Chris’ neck as he took a drink from the proffered cup, to the lingering of his hand in the small of Chris’ bare back as he guides him out the door, the man is like a force of nature- expansive, riveting, and inevitable. Chris would be a fool to get sucked in.

Chris considers quietly that he might be a fool.

There’s a large tow truck parked behind the garage, out of sight from the main highway. It’s enormous- painted a rich purple, accented with light grey racing stripes that sleek around the curve of the cab, and Chris stops dead at the sight. Zach doesn’t even notice, opening the door nearest him and clambering in, the denim around his ass flexing in a way that must be about two threads from ripping right up the seam, and my _God_ , wouldn’t that be a sight. He wriggles across the pleather bench seat to fit himself under the steering wheel, and turns back to stare at Chris through the open cab door.

“C’mon, baby, hop on up!”

Chris grimaces, and Zach just smiles more broadly, his chiclet-perfect teeth glinting in the desert sun. 

“The seat’s a bit high, but once you get yourself all situated, the ride’s good and smooth.” He pats the seat beside him.

If it’s a pick up line, it’s one of the worst he’s ever heard. But frankly? What’s worrying him the most is that the terribleness of the line hasn’t made Chris want to suck the inside dimple of this man’s elbow any less. He rolls his eyes, adjusts himself discretely, and climbs up the step into the cab of the tow truck.

\--

It’s an uncomfortable ten minutes before they reach Chris’ car- Zach seems to only possess music with suggestive lyrics, and also to possess a deep-seated delight in singing them at the top of his lungs. Chris sits through an… interesting… cover of “Why Don’t We Do It In The Road”, followed by some Nine Inch Nails, and though the music is ranging from tacky to obscene, and the truck itself is the closest thing to a hipster-mechanic pimpmobile that he’s ever known could possibly exist, he finds that he just can’t stop watching. He can’t stop watching Zach- Zach with his mouth open, Zach with those long fingers thrumming a beat onto the wheel, Zach’s hairy bare knee bouncing along to the rhythm and seemingly inching ever closer to Chris’ own. He’s magnetizing, this man, with his slightly strange face, his too-pretty mouth. He’s mesmerizing, hypnotizing, in the way that a predator is to prey, and Chris is starting to worry that he’s the fat, frozen rodent to Zach’s slinking, slithering reptile. 

They reach his car, and Chris has never been so grateful. An excuse to get out of this cab, a step away from the body heat he can feel rolling off the man beside him, an opportunity for fresh air to clear his head. He stumbles out, blinking his eyes at the glare from the sun on sand, struggling to stand straight with only half of his blood supply currently in circulation.

Zach whistles, long and low, hopping gleefully down from the truck to take a strut around the car, running an admiring hand along the flanks of the delicately curving machine, letting his fingers drift across the dips and lines of metal. He makes his way around to the front, coming to rest a foot in front of Chris, close enough to reach out and grab by the belt loops. He parks a butt-cheek on the fender like he belongs there, splaying his legs out in blatant invitation. Chris bites his tongue. Zach gives the hood ornament a slow, lingering caress, then turns his cindered gaze on Chris, eyes piercing beneath those ridiculous brows. 

“So. What’s a good boy like you doing with a car like this?”

“Who says I’m a good boy?”

It’s out of his mouth before he knows it, but with the way Zach throws his head back and laughs, exposing the line of his jawbone to the sky, Chris can’t possibly regret it. Zach finishes laughing and slides closer, snaking out a pair of fingers to hook into the waistband of Chris’ jeans and haul him up tight until he’s standing between Zach’s legs, inches away from Zach’s bare chest.

“You know what?” Zach tips his head to the side, a devious look in those molten eyes. “I don’t think you are. I don’t think you are at _all._ ”

Chris remembers to breathe just soon enough that he doesn’t begin to turn purple, and Zach gives him a sudden shove backward, that grin slicing across his face again.

“Here, pretty boy-” He grabs Chris’ arm and hauls him up alongside the back of the truck. “Reach over and handle my gearshifter while I get all the chains on tight.” He closes Chris’ hand around a metal lever, caressing his fingers in a completely unsubtle way. His eyes flash as he bares his teeth in a laugh. “Careful now, it needs a firm but gentle touch.” He winks shamelessly, leaving Chris gaping as he goes to secure the car.

\--

Twenty minutes and another gallon of sweat later, they’re back at the garage. Zach has pushed the muscle car out of the way, while Chris helpfully watched and ogled his glorious ass and shoulders as he threw his slight bulk into it. He’s like a dancer, Chris thinks, all long limbs and deliberate motions. He wants to bite into the back of his thigh, feel the press of the muscles as it flexes against his teeth. He wants to slide his hand up under the frayed edge of those shorts, see exactly how far up that pelt of hair goes. He wants to…

“So. You gonna come get your hands dirty, or you just gonna lay around like a princess?” 

The tone is mocking, and Chris feels himself rising to the bait. Zach is standing in the sun, thumbs hooked in his beltloops, chest shining in the glare. 

“Oh, don’t worry.” Chris crosses to stand directly in front of him, pausing briefly to look him slowly up, then down. “I’m not afraid to get my hands… messy.” He’s close enough to see Zach inhale a greedy breath, then he turns and walks away, placing his hands shoulder-width apart on the bumper, fingers splayed.

“Hey Zach-“ Chris looks over and grins, careless and flying with a sudden delighted resignation to his inevitable fate, “tell me when I’ve shoved it in far enough.”

\--

It’s a full ten minutes of grunting and pushing before the car is fully positioned. Zach is… well, helpful would be one word for it. _Picky_ would be another, Chris thinks, as Zach’s voice tells him yet again to _stop, no, wait, a hair to the left, ok, the line-up needs to be just right_. But finally the car is in, and Zach is nearly purring, the light in his eyes warm and excited, his fingers gentle, but thorough, as he examines her inside and out. He mutters to himself as he circles, too low for Chris to hear the details, but a steady rumble of sound that is acting like a very smooth stimulant on Chris’ overheated dick. 

Zach looks like straight up sin- the extra sweat from the ride in the blistering heat has given him an all-over sheen, which has only served to highlight the planes and angles of his narrow, but muscular, physique. He’s all long angles and sharply-drawn curves, the dark stubble on his cheeks making him look older than Chris thinks he really is. The concentration on his face as he rubs a thumb around the chrome headlight plating is fervent, knitting his eyebrows and drawing his tongue out between his two full, chewed lips. 

Chris shifts subtly, but Zach snaps his eyes up, the look of concentration narrowing into a look that can only be described as the purest of mischief. 

Zach places both hands flat on the hood and pushes, making the car bounce in response. He grins, teeth slicing through his lower face. 

“Great shocks. Have you… tested them much?”

Chris represses the urge to snicker. 

“Yes, frequently, for extended durations. However…” he pauses, pretending to think. “I haven’t checked them recently. She may be overdue for a… thorough… inspection.”

Zach nods sagely, humming under his breath as he considers, before raising an eyebrow casually. 

“When was the last time you had a lube job?”

“Not for a good long while. I’m sure I’m past the deadline for that. Maybe you could have a look, see if I- I mean, she- needs to be done?”

The smile on Zach’s face is all carnivore as he slides around the edge of the car. Chris steps forward involuntarily, feeling the blood rise to stain the skin of his chest and neck. His hands have turned instinctively forward to display their emptiness. Zach’s halfway to the front door now.

“I could always top off your fluids for you. Check your… dipstick.”

“How generous of you. I…” They’re less than a foot apart now. Zach has slid the last amount of distance down the side of the car to reach the handle to the back seat. Chris sidles up just behind it and rests a finger on the chrome door handle, running it slowly back and forth as he looks demurely up at Zach. 

“…I’ve been a little concerned about my back end. It might be somewhat out of alignment. Do you think you could… have a look?”

There’s a flicker in Zach’s eyes that can’t be anything other than unadulterated lust before he quirks his mouth and pulls open the door, gesturing Chris to slide in before him.

“All you need’s a good pistoning in your rear suspension. I’d be happy to see to it.”

Chris crawls in on the bench seat, kneeling in the middle of the dark blue vinyl on all fours, breathing heavily through his mouth. He can hear Zach clamber onto the seat behind him, and then there are hands, smooth, slick, hands, sliding over his back and shoulders, making him shiver with pleasure. It’s the first time they’ve touched more than fingers to fingers, and it’s electric, sparking between them like an overlit fuse. 

Zach’s breath rasps just behind his shoulder, and suddenly those same hands are clutching at his fly, making him gasp in shock and thrust forward, shoving his dick into the welcoming embrace of a palm and extended digits.

“Looks like you need your crankshaft adjusted.”

“You gotta wrench that’ll fit my…crankshaft?”

“Ohhh, yeah, baby. You better believe I do.”

It’s the work of seconds before his pants are pulled to his knees, his swollen dick bouncing out to _thwap_ against the seat. Zach groans behind him, mouthing insatiably at his shoulder, his arm, his ribs. The smell of diesel’s in his nose, mixed with the scents of the sun-warmed vinyl beneath his hands and sudden sharp odor of sweat and sex that wafts forward from Zach, who is pushing him down on the seat.

“Oh, just look at that.” Chris bites his lip to stifle a moan as Zach runs appreciative hands around his hips to the top of his ass, then down. “You’ve got glorious curves on your… chassis…” Chris gives a snort of laughter that abruptly turns into a whine as Zach slides a greased finger down into his crack, rubbing against the back of his balls with serious intent. He sits back for a moment, stepping out the car door to haul Chris’ jeans off over his battered Converses, leaving him stripped bare and stuck to the seat, fingers gripped onto the far door handle. 

“Don’t move a muscle. I’m just going to oil up your reservoir…” 

His voice is deep and rich and vibrating with suppressed laughter, and Chris can’t help himself, he’s chuckling with him, because this is so far beyond absurd that it can’t possibly even begin to be real life. His chuckle gets caught in his throat and threatens to throttle him as a well-lubed finger suddenly slides itself home, quickly followed by a second. He groans, peeling his front off the seat and hitching himself up on his knees, pushing back instinctively onto the driving pressure. He hears the snap of a condom distantly and starts to turn, but the press of a face in his neck dissuades him, teeth taking hold of an ear and nibbling.

“One more. We don’t want too much friction on rubber, you know that never ends well…”

He snickers and pushes himself into relaxation, breathing through his open mouth as Zach slicks them both with those cleverly dexterous fingers. He’s not sure if it’s the fumes or the stimulating company, but his head is swimming, so he lets it drop down, arching his back and letting his hips and shoulders take the weight. There’s a delighted moan from behind him at the view now on display, and he feels the sudden pressure against him. He breathes, in and out, over-run with stimulus frizzling through his nerve endings, charging from spark plug to carburetor. Zach is behind him panting, hands sliding across his flanks, his hips, the insides of his knees. The car is rocking, the vinyl squeaking beneath them in encouragement as they pick up speed. 

It doesn’t take long, but Chris can’t begin to bring himself to care- Zach is pistoning into the final lap, and Chris has taken his shaft in hand, opening the throttle and shifting into overdrive. The clutching at his shoulders combined with the wanton heaving into his right ear tell him the finish line is in sight, so he revs the engine and puts on the gas, feeling the stuttered firing as Zach pulls across just ahead. Two more strokes with extra torque, and Chris is gone, gone, gone, collapsing to the car seat in a daze, a sweaty and exhausted lump of filthy gorgeous mechanic sprawled all over him. 

It’s several minutes before he can do anything but gasp for air, but eventually he realizes that he’s in serious danger of becoming permanently affixed to the seat below him, and begins to squirm under the dead weight of the body on top. 

“Oof, hold still. Your shocks can’t take much more of this, you know.”

Chris elbows him, forcing him up and back as he carefully un-sticks himself from the seat. “Oh yeah? Well, fortunately that’s not what’s keeping it from running.” 

He finds his pants, shoves his feet in, pauses to look up at Zach, who has yet to bother to zip up his apparently underwear-less shorts. 

“So, Mechanic.” Zach twitches an eyebrow, and Chris grins. “How long till my baby’s running again?”

Zach stares at him for a moment, then bursts into laughter. 

“This hunk of junk?” His teeth are white and his eyes crinkle as he guffaws. “Oh, honey. You aren’t going _anywhere._ ”


End file.
